hands
by sherlicks
Summary: Her hands were exquisite. They were rough, but so incredibly soft against his skin; tanned, but the fairest he'd ever seen. Now all that was left of him was a void—dark, cold, and numb. A place where the suicide of memories left their bodies on the ground; broken, to be dissolved in the emptiness. Volume 13; Alternate Ending.
1. before

**Note: This chapter is set just prior to V13CH5; before Jeremy's near-death experience and Blaise's meltdown.**

* * *

Her hands were exquisite. They were rough, but so incredibly soft against his skin; tanned, but the fairest he'd ever seen. He knew every line and curve, every joint, every nail. He'd kissed those scarred knuckles countless times, bandaged those bruised fingers, and even taken care of the occasional paper cut.

Jeremy held her free hand in his as they waited for their suspect to return to the house. The afternoon stakeout was yet another one of Lieutenant Anders' "punishments" for his partner's rash behaviour. The detective sighed, bringing her warm fingertips to his lips again. In the seat beside him, Blaise adjusted her position in the chair, turning her head quickly away as to hide her reddening cheeks. He felt her hand turn tense under his, ready to pull away…

But a gentle, loving squeeze from Jeremy had stopped her full retreat. She cast him no look; the woman just stared all too diligently at the suspect's perpetually stationary door. He smiled to himself, her move—or lack thereof—making him immeasurably happy. Over the past few weeks, something in her had opened. She hadn't been so eager to move away every instant his affection was too "romance-and-butterflies" for her. The hot-headed Blaise was finally accepting him, and he was not one to complain.

And since Blaise was on such a stubbornly assiduous watch, Jeremy decided to entertain another hobby of his. He brushed his fingers over her calloused knuckles, skin thick from many years of punching incompetent criminals in the jaw. They fluttered gently over the tiny, soft blond hairs on the back of her hand, barely perceptible in the shade of the car. Her fingers were long, thin, and strong. He had often seen them firmly wrapped around the grip of a gun, pulling back the slide, squeezing the trigger and nailing some poor street thug that had been stupid enough to run.

Those hands always had the faintest smell of gunpowder. It was a scent he had grown to love, regardless of its violent connotations. Every day, he could smell it in her; weaved into her hair, clinging to her clothes, and most of all, embedded into the lines of her hands. He could even spot traces of the residue on her pale fingernails, ending in smooth crescents, always bare.

Jeremy gently flipped her hand around, studying the lines of her palm. He traced its creases, following the more defined of the lines from one side to another, pausing where the path split and taking the route that went down to her wrist. Her strong, steady pulse beat in time with his; the heart of their melody at a rhythmic _andantino_.

"Hey, stop it! That tickles." The hand he had captured was withdrawn from his, rising until it was right in front of his nose.

Her lithe fingers flicked the young detective right in the middle of his forehead.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You're being creepy again, Rednerd. What, have you suddenly found your calling as a palm reader? You'd better not turn all _Madame Firelli _on me, Rookie…"

Her voice had the tone of one who was trying a bit too hard to sound a lot more annoyed than how she was truly feeling. And under that was a layer of fondness that she would most definitely deny if asked about.

The words made him laugh, especially adorned with the stubborn little pout upon her lips. "Alright, there will be no visions into the future and mystic card readings, I promise. Though you're cramping my style here—I would have looked _great_ in all those silk scarves."

Blaise's fingers were suddenly poised for another attack.

"Don't make me hurt you again."

But even _she_ couldn't suppress the Jeremy-induced grin that was sneaking its way to the corners of her mouth.


	2. after

Inspiration: **Nostalgia** (by NikTaylor42)

**Note: This chapter is set just after V13CH6. Jeremy's heart was in a different stage of its beat cycle when he was stabbed.**

**He didn't make it.**

* * *

Her hands were in ruin. The cuts were like burns, but she felt nothing. Her torn skin was just another physical marker of his absence; her short, scratchy nails another reason to stop caring.

It had been too much for her to bear, so she decided to stop. She stopped thinking about things as pointless as love, and her chest had ceased to hurt. All that was left of him was a void—dark, cold, and numb. A place where the suicide of memories left their bodies on the ground; broken, to be dissolved in the emptiness.

The passenger seat was vacant, for they hadn't assigned her a new partner yet. And it wasn't like she needed one. Detective Blaise Corso did her job, and she did it well. She played by their rules and caught the bad guys, so much that it had become a routine. There was no more exploring, finding loopholes, seeing how much a regulation could bend… Blaise was done with the heat. The hot-headed flame was snuffed out at the exact moment the light faded from Redbird's eyes.

Her own pale blues blankly stared out at the suspect's perpetually stationary door. The afternoon stakeout was yet another task assigned to keep Blaise busy. Work was the only thing she allowed to occupy her mind, but even San Francisco's extensive criminal load was not enough. She barely noticed it anymore, what she was doing with her hands.

No, what she was doing _to_ her hands.

Her fingertips were chewed raw, and she'd gnawed at the little stubs that were her fingernails so much that they bled. She paid no attention to the thin chips if keratin she held between her teeth. Her cuticles were practically nonexistent.

But the damage extended further than that. There had soon been close to no more for Blaise to bite at, so her habit had spread outwards. The skin of those knuckles he had worked so hard to keep safe, the fingers that he had dressed so carefully so that her wounds wouldn't scar… his efforts were for naught. She could still feel his soft lips pressed against her hand, and she hated it.

Every time she caught herself succumbing to the habit, she would taste him; like blood in her mouth.

She had the hands of a neurotic, and as they were never tended to, they never healed.


End file.
